


End Without Sound

by girl_wonder



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-28
Updated: 2011-05-28
Packaged: 2017-10-19 20:43:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl_wonder/pseuds/girl_wonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's always easier to just not say anything. A hooker fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	End Without Sound

It wasn't quite Christmas, but Dad still wasn't home.

Sam had taken to spending his evenings at friends' houses, his eyes harsh when he told Dean that _yes_ he did remember to salt windows and doors when he was over somewhere else. Dean knew he was lying, but he couldn't call Sam on it, not without making everything else difficult.

So, instead, Dean just decided to do Christmas like Sam wanted this year. Sam wouldn't say anything, but Dean knew all he wanted for Christmas was a sugar-cookie mom and a baseball-playing Dad. Because Dean couldn't do that, he wanted to get a tree instead, and real gifts, not ones that he'd picked up from the back of someone else's car.

It was just fate that made him always pick the families that got their kids Trivial Pursuit and chick books like _Little Women_ and _Anne of Green Gables_. Although, the thick hardbacks had come in useful when he needed something to throw at the black dog staked outside their car.

Dean recounted the money again: two twenties and a five. Two ones and six pennies. Forty-seven oh six. The credit card would pay for the room until Dad came back, but forty wouldn't cover food and gifts, it'd barely cover food if he stretched it.

Carefully, Dean rolled up the money again and stashed it under the carpet where he'd ripped up the edge. Patting it back into place, Dean rocked back on his heels, staring at the blank wall because there had to be some way to get the money, some way.

For a second, Dean thought the sacrilegious thought of giving up Lucky Charms until after Dad came back, but Sam would throw a fit if they had to go to generic bran cereal. Nothing went with morning cartoons like Lucky Charms, not even a new Transformers action figure from Santa.

He scratched a note for Sammy onto the motel stationary, and locked the door behind him, double checking and drawing a salt line outside the door just in case.

The arcade across the street was noisy with townies, all playing games with guns and buttons, the sound screaming in Dean's ears. Unlike Sammy, Dean hadn't been in class enough to pick out the kids with the most money, but he kept his eyes on tells anyway.

New shoes, old jeans, worn shirt, too poor to want to take on the drifter in dice.

New jeans, new shirt, leather jacket, probably willing, but Dean took a look at him and saw the knowing look in his smile, a slight unevenness at the edges of his mouth. Like knows like.

The lights near the back were flashing red and Dean headed towards a group of older kids, a pack of them with their girlfriends. There was a hint of rum in the air and Dean knew that someone had spiked the bottles of coke they were drinking out of.

Pack mentality had them nearly eager to take on the fresh meat and so when Dean leaned over and started chatting up one of the girls, saying, "Oh, yeah, when I was down in Vegas last weekend..." the leader said, "Hey, faggot, want to put your money where your mouth is?"

Craps was at least an honest way of conning, and Dean didn't have any problem winking at the girl after her boyfriend lost to him. The alley wall was sharp against his cheek, and he ducked the second punch so that the guy's fist smashed hard into brick.

Fights weren't all or nothing things. It wasn't like hunting, where you won or you lost, it was different, because even if you won, you got hurt pretty bad, blood the same as pennies under his tongue.

Four against one, but after the first one probably broke his wrist, it was only three against one, with two girlfriends looking startled and frightened by the violence.

"Max," one said, the color on her cheeks was from blush, because he could see her pale in the streetlights. "Max, stop."

But Dean already had Max on the ground, and then swung up and slammed his shoulder against the second one's solar plexus, and he was fourteen and bleeding all over his only sweatshirt.

Winchesters don't cut and run; they see it through to the end and if you need to come back to get the job done, then you gear up and become Casper the homicidal ghost. So, Dean waited until he was sure that all four were down, weren't going to come after him, and then he left the alley, feet quicker than usual because down never meant _down and not going to call the cops_.

His face was bruised, and he'd messed up his elbow, it made a soft popping sound when he extended it. The street was darker than it had been two hours ago before the craps game, before the fight.

His eyes caught motion and he watched a kid, barely older than him, go up to a car window, arms crossed over his chest. The kid licked his lips and in the dim streetlights, Dean knew exactly what he was seeing, what all the guys hanging out against buildings meant. One of them caught his eye and glared, territorial.

Flipping the guy off, Dean approached the next car that slowed and grinned just because he could. No one told him what not to do except his dad. And it would mean a few more dollars and, hell, he was still hot from the fight, still itching for something he'd only gotten from girls before.

He thought of Sara from last summer who'd whimpered into his mouth and dragged her nails across his chest.

The guy in the car said, "Get in."

Dean got in.

*****

They were a few hours out of Oklahoma and Sam was pouring over the newspaper clippings for their next job, double checking with some information that Bobby had phoned them. Four dead, all kids, all faceless. Literally.

In his hand, the pool cue was smooth from wear and it was just slightly off balance. Enough that he had to compensate for it, had to adjust his shots. When he leaned over, Dean cocked his hip and took the shot.

Cue to seven ball. Pocketed.

Dean thought about his next shot as he chalked the pool stick. Hitting the five at an angle would also get him the three. Could clean the table now.

Leaning over again, he heard it.

"What did you say?" he asked, standing, looking his mark straight in the face. "What did you call me?"

"Faggot," the guy enunciated. "Faggotty little faggot showing off for your girlfriend over there?"

Dean moved quickly, the cue stick too off balance to be used as a bo staff, but easy enough to use as a bat, cracking against the guy's jaw and giving Dean room to grab his head, slam it down on Dean's knee. He reached down and snapped a sharp hook to the guy's mouth, knuckles slicing on the guy's teeth, ignoring the blood.

The guy hadn't even been able to touch Dean when Sam grabbed Dean by the shoulders, shoved through the crowd and pushed Dean out ahead of him.

"What the hell, Dean?" Sam asked. He pulled Dean's keys out of his jacket and unlocked the doors, taking the driver's seat without waiting for Dean to get in.

"Did you get the money?" Dean asked.

"The what? Was that what this was about? Money?"

"No," Dean said shortly. He stared out at the dark countryside. "Did you get it, though?"

Sam reached into his own pocket and threw the money at Dean, fives and tens scattering over Dean's lap.

"What was that about, Dean?"

Counting the money, Dean said, "Nothing."

The silence in the car was heavy, demanding, and Sam was always that way, even when they were little. So needy and it hurt to give him what he wanted, but it hurt more to withhold from Sam. It wasn't even a rock and a hard place, it was a rock and the garbage compressor from Star Wars. You gave and gave and still there was more to give.

"You're right," Dean said, finally, the count good. "It was about money."

"Jesus, you asshole."

But Sam sounded tired, and rested his cheek on a fist, the other hand on the wheel. Dean looked back into the dark.

*****

The second time, Dean walked into a bar, and the bartender said straight, "Uh-uh. No way, you get out of here. We don't need your kind of trouble."

Dean had looked down at himself: white tee and worn jeans, thick steel-toed boots. He didn't look fifteen.

But, the bartender nodded his head at one of the guys at the bar and the guy turned, pushing up his sleeves, clearly ready to kick Dean's ass and then have a beer for dessert. Opening his hands and backing up, Dean said, "Ok. Ok. I'm going."

Still a little confused, Dean was halfway down the block when a guy came up beside him. The guy smelled like sweat and leather, his hat was tipped back when he looked down at Dean.

"You selling?" the guy asked, low.

A couple stepped out of their way, giving Dean a soft look over that made him hunch his shoulders. Not underage trouble, then, rent boy trouble.

It meant that getting money from pool was out, then, and there were other options, but this was the easiest. Dean kicked at a can, the noise startling the mark.

"Sure," Dean said. "But I'm expensive."

*****

After the bar fight, Dean slept with three women in three days.

The third girl had a boyfriend.

He caught her eyes across the bar, where she was settled in a high seat, her ankle caught on the leg of her chair. She was wearing hoop earrings, and thick glossy lipstick that tasted plastic on his tongue.

"I've got somewhere," she said. "My boyfriend's coming."

There was a first time for everything, so Dean had shrugged, and tossed Sam the keys, ignoring the frown between his brother's eyes.

Dean flinched away from the boyfriend's kisses, letting the guy reach down and grab his ass, suck on his neck with a mouth wider than his girlfriend's, teeth sharper. The guy stayed for the whole thing, even when it was just Dean fucking the girl, her legs tight on his hips, hands grabby.

She smelled faintly like vanilla, her boyfriend smelled like bitter cologne. Dean kissed her on the lips and tried not to glare at her boyfriend when he left. The night was fading and he walked back to the motel, past the bakeries and coffee joints. When he opened the door to their room, he had two cups of coffee and a couple of donuts as a peace offering.

With Sam curled in on himself on Dean's bed, Dean remembered all of the other times that he'd ever abandoned his brother for a quicky in someone else's room. All those times compressed together sometimes and he was hit with how often it was, how much he didn't deserve Sam.

But when Sam looked over at him, there was the same honest forgiveness as always. Resentment on the surface, resentment in words, but underneath, Dean could already see his brother forgiving him.

"Donut?" Dean offered.

Sam sighed. "Jerk."

*****

Her bra was the color of cotton candy and bubblegum, pale pink and when he slid the strap down off her shoulder she giggled a little, arms crossing in front of her breasts, embarrassed.

"Don't look at me like that," she said. She would be the second girl he slept with if he ever got her to put out.

"Like, you know, like you're one of the guys at the bar," she rolled her eyes.

Sunlight warmed her features and Dean carefully pulled a leaf off of her hair, dropping it on the ground beside them. Watching her eyes, he shook his head.

"Not like them."

It was summer in the south and his accent thickened like syrup when they stayed in towns like this for too long. Sam just began to talk more like his teachers, educated and slightly different in indefinable ways.

Running a thumb down the top of her breasts, he knew what she meant. Men looked at her like she was just another thing they could rent, just another piece they could own and throw away. He knew that look in men's eyes when he went to pick up his father from bars.

The grass was dried under his legs, scratching at his bare feet, and the tree's bark was marking his skin. He didn't need to ask if she'd done this before.

There was something wrong in her smile that he recognized in his own. They were fifteen and it felt like everything innocent about them was already bled out onto the floors of barrooms.

Gentle, he unclasped her bra and said, "'m not like them."

*****

The bar smelled dusty, the dry summer rough on the land. Dean knew enough about farming from having to pretend to be farmhands that he recognized a drought when he saw one.

It was cool inside the bar though, lonely except for the flies and the bartender busy restocking in the back, content to let Dean drink a Bud and play lonely games of pool.

The guy's metal belt buckle caught the light and danced it across the table, so that Dean had to look up and frown a little. It was early to be drinking, unless you'd been up the whole night before hunting for ghosts. Sam had still been asleep when Dean left.

Dean turned back to his game, ignoring the guy. Not his business why someone would be drinking so early in the day. The soft sound of liquid being poured into a glass was familiar enough that Dean counted two fingers of scotch in an iceless glass.

"Up for a second?" The guy's voice was low, tough.

Dean ignored him, raised an eyebrow when the guy picked up the only other stick in the bar.

"I'm Nick," the guy said.

"Dean."

He sank the eight ball and gestured for Nick to set up the game. Nick's motions were smooth and he snuck a glance at Dean when he finished. His cheekbones were harsh on his face, and he looked like the land felt: slightly worn, slightly hungry.

Nick played well, his shots well planned. His drink was almost untouched on a nearby table, sending copper shadows streaking across the wood. Dean finished the game in three shots. He wasn't in the mood to play with his prey.

"Good game," Nick said, taking a small sip of his drink.

Dean shrugged. He was chalking up his stick and ignored how Nick's eyes tracked his hands, traveled up to his face. He ignored the cough of the bartender.

"Maybe you want to go somewhere else?" Nick's face was slightly hopeful, his eyes slightly warm.

If Nick had been a girl, Dean would have picked up sooner. Instead, he just backed off, hands tightening around the pool stick.

"Fuck off," Dean said. He wanted to punch Nick in the face, feel his fist against Nick's jaw.

Nick's skin was well shaven.

"Fuck off," Dean repeated. He couldn't quite bring himself to say it, say _faggot_ with the same aggression he heard it, so he just threw the pool stick on the table, scattering the remaining balls, making Nick jump.

"Freak," he said, brushing by Nick on his way out the door.

*****

Dean was sixteen the first time he actually went through with it instead of leaving the poor mark knocked unconscious in a motel room. He hadn't been able to, the first two times. He'd balked and his training was to take care of opponents bigger than him, stronger than him. He'd trained on his father and these men were easy compared to sparring that could go on until Dean's knees gave out.

"You hooking?" the guy asked him, thumb hooked into his belt. He looked at Dean measuring.

The supermarket lights were florescent white and Dean didn't have the money for the food he was buying, he didn't have the cards for it. He'd been planning to sprint out of the store with it.

His father said that Winchesters didn't steal: they conned, but didn't steal. Occasionally, Dean liked to protect his father from the reality of life as Dean knew it. There was something almost innocent about his father's blind belief that life was one way when Dean knew better than most that life was hard and money was tight and ghosts were real, but so was hunger.

Dean looked down at his basket, and added some Oreos. The guy had a thick mustache, dark brown on his light skin. His eyebrows were grown together, one long uni-brow that stretched across the guy's forehead.

Pursing his lips, Dean said, "You're going to buy me groceries."

He was on his knees behind the store, plastic bags surrounding him and the guy hadn't protested about how much food Dean had bought, just offered over a credit card and Dean had to give him credit for that.

His lips stretched wide, and Dean choked when the guy pushed hard into his mouth, coming with a grunt.

Spitting out onto the sidewalk, Dean didn't watch the guy button up, ignored the sound of a zipper.

"Pretty little faggot," the guy said, his eyes hard. He ran a thumb across his mustache and looked surprised when Dean's fist smashed into his mouth.

"Not a faggot," Dean said, angry, not caring how much he bruised the guy, not caring how much he bruised himself.

When Dean stopped, the guy was looking at him with fear, one eye nearly swelled closed, sucking on a split lip. He leaned back against the emergency door for the grocery store, peeling paint flaking off onto the guy's jacket.

Reaching down for his groceries, Dean backed up, eyes still on the guy. He didn't want to give the guy any chance at all to get his revenge. Nearly tripping on the curb, Dean turned and sprinted for the car.

*****

They were short on cash and it'd been a really long time, but Dean looked over at a guy at the bar and smiled.

Sam was working on the newest case at their motel and Dean was supposed to be earning them cash in the backroom poker game that Suzie the diner waitress told them about but it was closed, closed, closed when he came by. So, he waited at the bar looking for a mark at pool and if that didn't work, looking for a girl he could take home.

Instead, he saw the guy at the bar, too clean and too male. It was the type of front that Dean put on all the time about other things. He was too honest when he was playing a priest. He was too by-the-book when he was playing a fed.

At the end of the bar, the guy was too straight.

Dean winked at him once, a slight thing that no one else probably saw, but enough that the guy got up and followed him when Dean walked out into the parking lot.

"Five hundred," Dean said, straight out. He leaned against the back of the Impala, knee slightly bent.

The car was a solid thing, reliable. Dean knew the car.

"I'm Jack," the guy said.

"Hi, Jack," Dean said, drawing out the name. He was trying to read Jack, but it had been years since he'd done something like this and Dean found himself wondering if maybe he liked it, if maybe he was just a little faggot still, after all these years.

"Five hundred?" Jack asked.

"Take it or leave it," Dean offered.

"Ok," Jack said.

*****

Sam was fourteen when he caught on.

"Dean," Sam had said, holding the roll of bills and the roll of condoms in two different hands.

He was getting straight A's in class and it didn't take someone who could do calculus to add up two plus two equals Dean giving blowjobs to strangers.

When Sam said it, so sad, so superior, Dean had just shrugged him off, gone to take a shower. After he came out, the condoms were gone, the money piled on the dresser by their amount.

"I got a job," Sam said, abruptly, not looking at Dean. "And the manager says that you can start on Monday."

"We have to be ready to move when Dad comes to pick us up," Dean said. He dried his hair with the towel, harsh terrycloth that they'd stolen from a hotel before they moved into the apartment.

"He loses people all the time," Sam says. "He won't care."

Dean had shrugged at the time, but there was some relief in it, too. If Sam knew, then Dean could pretend it didn't happen. It would be a white space between them, empty because he believed it was, but at least he wouldn't be always afraid that Sam would find out.

Sam knew, now, and that made it easier.

*****

"Jesus, Dean," Sam said, waking up abruptly when Dean got into the car. "Sometimes I think that all these girls are you just trying to overcompensate."

"Overcompensate?" Dean asked. If he'd been more awake, he wouldn't have walked into it. But he'd been up all night with the doublemint twins and Sam had been forced to sleep in the car, which never made him happy.

"Transference. I think you're gay and are pretending to be straight."

The car screeched when he accelerated too fast. It was early, still, the sun wasn't even out yet, and Dean knew he'd be driving a long time today.

"I'm not a faggot, Sam."

The pause was heavy, weighted with exhaustion and experience.

"Right," Sam said.

"Tell me about the new case," Dean said.

*****

end.


End file.
